Fandom: House MD
Pairing: Chase/Wilson (implied Cameron/Foreman, as apparently that’s my thang these days).
Challenge/Prompt: fanfic100, 072. Fixed
Rating: PG-15 (just in case)
Summary: After Grace’s death, Wilson needs someone to turn to. And Chase just wants someone to rip apart.
Author’s Notes: I started writing this the week “House VS God” aired in the UK, because I was so pissed off at Wilson’s actions during that episode that I needed to hurt him. Therefore this fic might be a little unlikely and a little badly written. *shrugs*
“How many times do I have to tell you? I don’t need *fixing*!”
The day that he hears Grace is dead, James Wilson spends half an hour picking a tie, actively avoids House all morning, and goes home early with a migraine. He isn’t surprised that she’s gone. He kept telling her all along that she would die. And it’s certainly one of the side effects of picking a cancer patient for a lover. It’s a short-term thing and at least you never have to go through the divorce a few months later (you just put on the same suit for a funeral instead). And Wilson could blame himself and he could cry and he could tell House that he’s right (only he’s told him that enough times), but he doesn’t do any of these things. He sits on his sofa and does nothing.
“Then maybe you should stop acting like all you want is for people to rescue you!”
Robert Chase has freckles on his spine and he laughs a soft, shaky laugh when Wilson kisses them, head bowed with soft blonde hair in his eyes. Wilson’s mouth moves up to press lightly against his neck, and Chase sighs, turning around to pull him into a proper kiss, searching, hungry, unknotting Wilson’s tie impatiently and undoing the top buttons of his shirt. Neither one of them is sure how this started and they don’t know how it will end either, but that doesn’t matter much, fingers practically bruising in desperate grasping of skin, Chase pushing Wilson’s shirt back off his shoulders, and carefully not mentioning he saw that same shirt in Grace’s apartment.
“I never, *never* asked anything from you. Stop pretending I did!”
It’s raining and Chase lies on his bed and counts House’s victories and God’s victories and tries to find an overall winner. Really, though, he can’t find one. It’s strange that it took a fifteen-year-old boy with more faith than sense to show him that House shouldn’t rule his life. Four months later, and he’s doing the one thing that will drive House crazy: sleeping with James Wilson. Usurping House’s control over the rather beautiful oncologist. He’ll get fired or murdered or both (blunt force trauma to the back of the head with a cane; and House standing over him murmuring “so *that’s* what it takes to ruin your hair”) but somehow Chase doesn’t care.
“Oh please Robert, if you hadn’t chosen me you’d have picked Cameron.”
Greg House smiles slightly, tapping his cane against his palm. He spills a dozen Vicodin pills across the table, laying his cane down and pushing the white tablets into a neat line, taking one pill from either end and shoving the rest into the bottle. He watches Chase and Wilson outside the glass walls, discussing a patient, looking through a file, heads close together, close enough to kiss. They don’t though, just keep discussing stats, and House smirks because that explains a lot, and he can have hours and hours of fun with Jimmy and this interesting new development.
“Yeah? Well, I suppose you’d know all about that.”
Chase is on his knees in exam room one with Wilson’s fingers threaded through his hair, tugging hard enough to hurt, but oh well. His eyes are closed and his mind is positively *screaming* with the words that he won’t say; tell me that I don’t need this, tell me that I can walk away from this any time I like, tell me you don’t want me and let me get away from this intact. Tell me I’m no good in bed, tell me that House will kill me, tell me that you don’t need me and that you can get this anywhere. His mouth and throat are filled with the bitter taste that accompanies Wilson’s orgasm and under the sound of the other man’s groaning thinks, tell me that you love me and let me hurt you the way that I need to hurt someone.
“Is that really all you think about me?”
It isn’t House, and it ought to be. Wilson gnaws his thumbnail and signs a chart and thinks about his best friend, and wishes that there was something in those blue eyes that he could cling to, because it would somehow make sense. Instead, it’s Chase that he craves when he’s tired and he can’t bear to look at the mess his life is. The young blonde man whose lips taste incredible and who can do things with his mouth that are positively sinful. And it hurts, and he doesn’t want to think it, but he’s beginning to realise that it’s probably because Chase is even more lost and damaged and fucked-up than he is, and even if he cracks him a little more every time, it’s no more than what anyone else is doing.
“You know it is.”
Cameron and the way she’s beginning to look at Foreman amuses Chase more than it should. Something about the way she’s clearly addicted to pain. He feels that affinity with her, although privately thinks she ought to hang in there with House if she really wants the full depth of excruciating emotional agony. He’s got Wilson, who isn’t so much hurting his feelings as trying to preserve them, which makes Chase wince and it’s easier to lie back and take it rather than point out to Wilson that really, they want different things and the whole thing is going to end in more than just tears.
“So what, I’m the guy who just can’t keep his dick in his pants and you’re the one who is so messed-up that he just wants everyone to save him from himself?”
Wilson tells himself, over and over, that he doesn’t need Chase. He tells himself this even as he kisses him desperately, winding his fingers through that softer-than-soft blonde hair, tells himself this as Chase spreads his thighs, moaning, tells himself that he can stop *any time he wants to* even as he thrusts into him. It’s only skin, he thinks, I can find this wherever I want to. It doesn’t have to be Chase. This could be the last time. Chase’s back arches and he hisses softly but Wilson claims his mouth in another kiss and the sounds are lost in sensation. But, even as he feels the edge approaching at the speed of light (or maybe faster; Chase is *fantastic* in the sack), Wilson is also far too aware that he falls for people at the drop of a hat, and he’s already halfway there.
“Maybe. But you’re turning into House.”
Robert sips at a coffee and watches Cameron and Foreman and House through his eyelashes. Wilson isn’t around. Light is glaring off the whiteboard, making the firm black letters look slightly green and even more incomprehensible than ever. He’s completely out of ideas.
“What does it take to get you to speak?” House asks him, rounding on him because Chase is the gift that just keeps on giving, and he *knows* that one day he should just leave. “Do you need Wilson in the room before you’ll open your mouth?” He winks at him.
“Shut. Up.” Chase hears himself form the words before he can stop himself. House looks surprised for a minute and then proud.
“House would have said something about priests.”
Wilson finds his lips tingling with the words; so, Robert, I hear you were almost a priest. But he doesn’t say them, because they’re not the thing to say to a medical co-worker you also happen to be fucking on a regular basis. Robert- Chase-, for his part, doesn’t ever mention seminary school, or medical school, and there are so many taboo topics that it’s amazing that they ever manage a conversation at all. Not that they have many conversations. Chase doesn’t invite speech and Wilson somehow finds it easier not to open his mouth, because that’s entering a whole headspace he’s just not ready for.
“It’s only a matter of time.”
Cameron asks him, just once, what’s going on between him and Wilson. Chase shrugs and murmurs things about how it doesn’t require any effort and Wilson is there and he’s got a good body and a sympathetic ear (not that he talks to him; but he doesn’t tell Cameron that) and ok, it pisses House off, but it gives Chase an edge that he needs. Cameron frowns with that cross face she specialises in all over the place and asks him whether he loves him.
“He means *nothing* to me,” Chase snarls, terrified at the implications and lashing out, “*Nothing*.” Cameron looks sickened and white and turns away, and Chase shrugs because she should know him by now.
“This could have meant something you know.”
“You, Jimmy, are getting entirely too wrapped up. Time to abort. Go find a nurse with a tight ass and no morals.”
“Chase has both those attributes.”
“But I bet you look into his eyes while you’re fucking him. Oh, sorry, when you *make love*.”
Wilson looks at House with both hurt and disgust in his eyes, but his friend refuses to back down. He looks away, uncomfortable and feeling naked in front of the bare truth painted across House’s entire body.
“I didn’t *need* it to mean something. I didn’t fucking *need* saving. You just think that it would be so great if you could fix everyone.”
Chase sleeps facing away from him, almost unconsciously, except when it’s late and Wilson is sure that it’s *deliberate*. Although that might just be sheer anxiety on his part, or just the way he’s always petrified of losing whoever he has. Petrified of losing them until he actually does something to push them away. Or they push him away. It’s all very strange. But Wilson is beginning to feel like he understands Chase, maybe like he could mend some of that hurt, just a little. But the more he tries the more Chase backs up against the wall, either too scared or too angry to let him in.
“As opposed to you, I suppose? You’re just so fucked-up that you seem to find it strange if you meet someone who isn’t.”
The weeks fall by the wayside and Chase can’t work out how long he’s been sleeping with Wilson, can’t work out how long he’s been thinking this is a bad idea, except that it’s obviously been a long, long time and he really ought to act on that instinct at some point. Cameron falls in and out of love with House and with Foreman silently and pathetically, and Chase watches her and reflects that at least it’s a lot simpler for her and her crashing emotions than it is for him. He- well, he feels nothing at all.
“Don’t pretend that you’re Mr Stable. You’re not. If you want to fix someone, go and waste your efforts on House. Oh, wait; you already are.”
Chase is sitting with his back against his sofa and tapping his fingernails against his kneecap, fringe in his eyes and abject misery all over his face. Wilson sits in the armchair and says nothing because there is nothing he can say, and his mouth has been shut since he arrived ten minutes ago. There’s an overwhelming scent of burning plastic and he doesn’t know why and he doesn’t want to know why either.
“Why are you here?” Chase asks him, not even deigning to look at him. Wilson bites his lips together, unable to work out why himself. The words because I have to be get stuck in his throat.
Making Wilson fall for him was never part of the plan except that, you know, it was. From listening to discussions he shouldn’t have been listening to, and forming his own conclusions, Chase discovered that it is far too easy to make Wilson decide you’re his one and only. And so, almost unconsciously, he got on with it. And now he’s got a big tangled mess, because Wilson has this *look* in his eyes and Chase likes the power he feels every time he catches a glimpse of it too much to stop this in its tracks. He wants to ride this train right though to its inevitable and shattering conclusion, and he’s going to enjoy every fucking minute of it.
House never worked out the sadistic side to his masochism.
“You know who I am. You always did. You wanted something out of this that I couldn’t give you. You’re so needy.”
Wilson says “I love you” for the first time when he’s certain Chase is asleep. (Chase isn’t. He is wide awake with his eyes tight shut and when he hears Wilson’s words he digs his nails into his thigh under the sheets, so that his expression of serenity won’t be broken.) He doesn’t say it again over the next few days but Chase feels it and tastes it in every brush of Wilson’s mouth on his skin and even though no one’s said “I love you” in years and years to him, he still relishes what it will mean and how he’ll be able to tear Wilson’s emotions to shreds, to match his own tattered and depleted set.
“So are you.”
Cameron eventually gets to the point where she blushes at Foreman on a regular basis and she has fingernail marks on the inside of her wrists. Chase, if he were House, might quote something about not getting what you want but trying and getting what you need. But he isn’t House, so he doesn’t.
(Although it is true that he doesn’t exactly *want* to break Wilson’s heart, but he does need to. He needs to because he’s so damaged and bitter that he *has* to be in control of something right now.)
“This isn’t getting us anywhere.”
“You do *know* what you’re doing to Wilson, don’t you?” House asks. Chase contemplates lying but it would be pointless.
“Yes,” he replies.
“Just checking.” House gives him a brief smile. “Using Jimmy’s ability to fall for people for your own nefarious purposes. I thought you’d be above all that, Chase.”
“I’m not,” Chase replies, shrugging.
“I can see.” House does look rather amused, which is unsettling. Chase cracks.
“Shouldn’t you be telling me not-”
“What Jimmy’s stupid enough to get himself into it none of my business,” House shrugs, “However, you are going to be my uncomplaining whipping boy for the next few months, ok?”
Chase nods. It’s a fair trade.
“What, we’re going somewhere now? That’s news to me.”
They start arguing about two weeks later. Little things, stupid bickering, the slightest things setting them both off. They spend their evenings screaming at each other and slamming doors and acting like children. Chase’s parents used to act like this and he wonders vaguely whether he’s more like his mother or his father. He supposes he’s more like his father, who strung his mother along and hurt her feelings and let her down and left her to curl up within the glass walls of bottles of gin because it seemed safer in there than in the cold, rough world that splintered her skin. Chase wonders whether he should stop but he can’t. He *can’t*.
“I’m leaving. Now. I mean it.”
“I hate you.”
It slips out louder and more vocal than Chase meant it to (it’s all very well screaming these things in your head, but the moment you say them out loud-) and the look on Wilson’s face is beautiful. Crumpled, hurt, breathless, terrified, but the one of complete realisation has yet to arrive and Chase is waiting for that one, and will hold out for as long as it takes. For the moment when Wilson discovers, really and truly, just how long Chase has been manipulating him, and just how deep his poison has permeated.
So he blames the words on alcohol and waits for the opportune moment.
“That’ll be a first. You’ve been leaving for how many weeks now?”
Wilson knows that Chase dislikes him and part of him wonders whether he ever liked him in the first place, but it’s easier not to think that way. Wilson is very, very, exceptionally good at divorces, break-ups, lovers’ tiffs, fist-fights, shouting, sobbing in empty rooms, “it’s not you it’s me” speeches, and slamming the door too hard behind him. He’s also very good at being sad afterwards, meaning every word he says, and moping excessively.
House is smiling like he always knew that this was going to happen, and somehow Wilson hates him too.
“Oh, sorry, I should have known that you’d be the one who wanted to walk out first. You being the expert and everything.”
Breaking up with Wilson and tearing his heart into little pieces in the process is turning out to be surprisingly easy. Chase briefly wonders from time to time whether he should have gone with Cameron, but she’s too busy coming in with lovebites and, really, he doesn’t like her all that much.
They argue endlessly, Wilson hits him, House snickers at the bruise and Cameron tries to mother him and Foreman just gives him a knowing look (which makes Chase want to outright punch him, but enough fists have connected with enough faces over the last few days).
Neither of them can hold on much longer.
“That’s not fair,”
Wilson says, hurt crumpling over his face. Chase shrugs, because that’s what’s expected of him now; enough words have been screamed and he’s tired of this now, of watching Wilson’s (undeniably beautiful) eyes split with misery, of listening to him turn cold and sarcastic and burning hot and furious by turns. There’s no point in trying to salvage anything, no point in turning back; he doesn’t want to salvage this, never did, and it’s funny that Wilson might once have thought that he could fix him.
So he shrugs his shoulders, and walks away, because it’s the only thing he knows how to do, tossing backwards over his shoulder: